The Russian Crisis

by G. R. Daniels

  Jackson had liked Maxim Blax and was amazed and distraught he might have been wrong about the man.

  Phillips broke off his studying to make himself a simple supper. He chomped on an apple for dessert as he took a seat in one of the leather chairs where he had hosted his meeting earlier in the day. Looking out over the bay, through the rear windows of his cottage, Jackson witnessed a spectacular sunset but thought about the depressing decision he had to make.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I told you not to take any action. I just wanted them followed, you moron.”

  The Ukrainian was raging. The downtown parking garage was deserted and its door were closed and locked for the night. There were no other witnesses to the confrontation except for two heavies and, of course, the target of his rage. The target was young, dark-complexioned, a smaller man than any of the other three but not a shrimp. At the moment, though, he seemed shrunken as he cowered against a cement pillar.

  “But, they saw us. The driver looked right at us,” the target whined. “You told us not to make them suspicious. I figured…”

  “Now they’ll keep an eye out, you stupid piece of crap. You tipped them off.” Roman Petrenko, the Ukrainian, was marching back and forth in front of the pleading man and his two other crew members.

  “So what?” The pleading man seemed confused as well as frightened. “They can’t do nothing about it. It was just tailgating.”

  “Bullshit,” yelled Petrenko. “You hit them. I didn’t tell you to do that.” He kicked out at the man who pulled away even more. “If they ever see you, they’ll trace you to me; you don’t know how good these people are.” Petrenko turned and walked away from the cringing man.

  “This is the last time for you." He turned to another man. "Take out the garbage,” said the thin, pale-skinned chieftain, brushing a mote of dust from the shoulder of his black suit. He went toward the BMW coupe parked in the garage. The only other vehicle present was a dark blue Mercedes van a few metres from the remaining three men.

  “No,” the pleading man screamed. “Please. I’m just…” No one would ever know what the man wanted to say. The gun was silenced but the pop was still loud in the cavernous garage. The pleader’s face expanded momentarily and then the back of his head exploded as the bullet blew his skull apart.

  The gunman unscrewed the silencer and put the smoking gun into a shoulder holster under his brown leather bomber jacket. His cohort moved to a hose coiled at an edge of the garage. He pulled the nozzle of the hose across the concrete floor to the killing place. He dropped the nozzle and hose onto the floor and joined his partner in pulling the corpse onto a large piece of plastic the killer had taken from the van.

  The men, one white, the other black, heard the clanking of a garage door opening, then closing as The Ukrainian drove the BMW away into the night.

  Victor, the white-skinned killer turned to his black companion. “No loss, I was getting tired of that idiot and his screwups. What about Pavel?”

  The black man grunted as he lifted one end of the plastic bearing the body. “He was the passenger? It wasn’t his idea, mon; he just sat there. Then he ratted to Petrenko on this fella.” He waved at the corpse. “Besides, he is a Russian fella, like you. Petrenko’s not going to rough you two up now, is he?” Then, he added, “Grab an end, mon. And you do da hosing next time.”

  Half an hour later, the Mercedes van was driven out of the garage and the door was left closed but unlocked for the parking attendant when he arriving in the early morning. A large pool of water was drying on the cement and in a large drain.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Maxim Blax leaned back into the soft, blonde leather of the couch in his penthouse apartment in the new building in downtown Toronto. The tower was more than 70 storeys high and Blax’s penthouse unit was the highest. He looked over the sprawling city, the fourth largest in North America, and yawned. He wouldn’t go out this night. He had attended two conferences and three parties in the past week and he was tired. He was also angry. Why was his staff trying to undermine him?

  Blax slammed one hand down on the soft cushion of the couch. He leaned forward again and grabbed the heavy glass from the coffee table in front of him. He slugged back the whiskey and swore at the sky outside of his aerie, a sky in which the sun was rapidly sinking toward the horizon. Looking into the late sun gave him a headache so Blax turned away and stared into the amber liquid left in his glass.

  His iPhone sounded a piano riff ring tone. He grunted, “Yeah.”

  “Sir.” It was Brownley. Blax had called the man earlier in the day and had left a message to return the call. Now, Blax forgot what he had wanted.

  “I’m very sorry to call you so late in the day but Mr. Payne had me drive him to Mr. Phillips’ place up north. Boy, that’s some place…”

  “I don't care about that, Brownley. Why did Payne go there in the middle of the week?”

  “Well, Mr. Blax,” there was tired exasperation in Brownley’s voice. “Mr. Payne thinks Phillips can help us. You know, with the source code problem.”

  “What! I told everyone to forget that. It couldn’t happen. It’s just a trick to make me look bad.”

  “Mr. Payne and the other execs are worried. That code was created under Mr. Phillips so he might have some ideas… I don’t think they wanted to bother you further.” Brownley took a mediator’s role.

  Blax was tired of the conversation. If Payne wanted to play games on this non-issue, let him. “I don’t give a dog’s fart about that bunch; so, what the hell is Phillips going to do? Is he going to come down here to make my life hell?”

  Brownley hesitated before responding. “He didn’t say whether he’s coming. If he does come down, you can ask him yourself.” He paused. “Listen, Mr. Blax, I have to be honest. This really makes me nervous. You on one side, Payne and the rest on the other. Me in the middle. Now, Mr. Phillips…”

  “Did he look capable? You know, old…”

  Brownley was thrown off by the strange question. “Uh, what’s that… Yeah, he is older but he’s in great shape as far as I could see. Again, I don’t like talking about someone like that…”

  “You like your job, Mr. Brownley?”

  “I wouldn’t threaten, Mr. Blax. I can find another good job tomorrow and I’ve got a contract. I’ve returned your call. What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, yeah. Nothing, now. I have to think about this.” Blax sounded distracted.

  Blax took a breath. “Okay, I’m going to eat and get some rest. Okay?” His tone had grown cold and abrupt, on the edge of insulting.

  Blax re-engaged. “Jesus. Take it easy Brownley. I’m worried, that’s all. We’ve made changes at JPI and I don’t need the former CEO looking for ways to take us backward. You gotta admit I’ve made a lot of steps forward and we’ll all be better for it.”

  “I’m not arguing,” said Brownley. “But you have to admit, we’ve got a big problem if our proprietary code…”

  “Stop!” Blax shouted into his iPhone, holding the device away from his face. “Don’t say another word! This is not a secure line. If we have a problem, it’s people being careless. We don’t have a problem. You shouldn’t be saying things like this. I won’t be treated like this. This company is mine. Do you hear what I’m saying?” The man was ranting.

  “As you say, Mr. Blax,” the head of security cut in. “This is not a secure line. So, I’ll say goodnight. Have a good one sir.”

  Blax continued his rant for a moment. He halted and listened to his phone. Finding it dead, he threw the device onto the couch and vented in a stream of foul words. It would be a long night alone in his penthouse.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jackson Phillips rose early in the morning feeling much more alive than he had in months. He had been tired in the morning for days, dragging himself out of bed to take an early swim followed by a short turn around the bay in his kayak unless the waves were up. He had worked his way through breakfast like a task and had left dishes
dirty on the counter for hours before putting them in the dishwasher.

  Today, he dressed quickly in light, tan slacks and a long-sleeved dress shirt. He eschewed sandals for a pair of Cole Hahn deck shoes. He ate breakfast with gusto and moved nimbly to his SUV after setting alarms and locking the cottage. He called his live-out housekeeper and party cook, Graham Carde, and asked him to check the place daily. He called his part-time Toronto housekeeper and asked her to make ready his city condo. He had no idea how long he would be in one place or the other.

  Late in the night before, Jackson had come to a decision. He would go to Toronto, where he still kept a condo in the downtown area. He would do all he could to resolve the pending crisis at JPI, the company he had founded and built. He would also find out what the hell was going on with Maxim Blax, the man he had helped handpick to take his place and to safeguard his former company.

  Not bothering to pack, since he kept a complete wardrobe in Toronto, Phillips went to the boathouse and, taking care not to get grease on his dressier clothes, released the winch to slide his inboard SeaRay down the rails and into the cove. He unclipped the cable and climbed into the 24-footer from a cement dock. He backed the SeaRay into the bay, turned it with a flourish, and roared off toward the mainland with renewed excitement.

  Minutes later, Jackson tied his craft to a dock at the mainland marina at which he kept a berth and made his way to the parking lot where he parked his Audi SUV. Shortly afterward, Jackson was heading south on Highway 400 toward Toronto. He headed toward a challenge that he wanted and needed.

  His trip was close to three hours of typical stop and go. Jackson had taken the same military driving training that Brownley had and he managed the traffic and the clear stretches with equal aplomb.

  Jackson pulled into the garage of his condo building near St. Clair Avenue and Yonge Street. He parked in his stall and took an elevator to his 1,500 square foot unit on the 20th floor.

  Jackson found the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets newly stocked with food and the unit ready for a lengthy stay. He took out a container of crab salad and ate lunch at the island of the open kitchen.

  Phillips was at the JPI offices on Queen’s Quay in mid-afternoon. The offices were in a large, two-year-old office building on the harbour-side street at the southern edge of the central part of Toronto. The street is wide with sidewalks busy during the day with people on the way to and from work, heading for the tourist attractions on Toronto Harbour and going to or leaving their homes in area condos. Phillips felt at home as he entered the large, open and glistening lobby of the building.

  JPI occupied a number of floors of the building. Here and in other quarters in the hinterlands JPI space housed its several thousand workers. JPI was still a medium player in the tech sphere but its output was unique, highly specialized and prized by its customers.

  He stopped at a security desk in the lobby where alert staff checked his credentials. They issued him a visitor’s pass that barred him entry to the company’s design and programming workspaces. He arrived at the first executive floor where a pair of young, fit-looking women checked his credentials again, matching the photo ident with his clean-shaven face. Finally, he was taken by a male escort into the executive board room.

  The escort pointed to a chair among the number drawn up to the long board table, said, “Sir”, and left without another word. Jackson smiled patiently and took his seat at the table. He sat and waited.

  It took at least five minutes but a group did come into the room. Jackson recognized Blax, his friend Payne, Brownley and Fred Nbodo, the technology chief. He didn’t recognize COO Carmen Flores but she and other newbies had been described to him by Payne. Flores was a Blax hire, replacing the COO under Jackson who had taken her bonus money and moved to Costa Rica. Bringing up the rear was a young black woman with a wondrous head of curly black hair bouncing as she walked. Jackson watched the woman for a few seconds until, not wanting to ogle, he focused on Blax.

  Jackson rose as the new CEO approached the end of the table. “Maxim, great to see you again.”

  Blax held out his hand but his face was expressionless. As his hand met Jackson’s, Blax put as much pressure as he could into his grasp. Jackson was astonished to realize Blax was playing a schoolyard game of who could shake harder. He closed his own hand with strength built over years of paddling boats and lifting weights in his home gym. Blax gave up, pulling his hand back with difficulty.

  Jackson felt shame at his own juvenile response but smiled even more broadly as Blax stepped back. “How do you like it?” he asked innocently.

  Blax was confused.

  “The job, Maxim. How are you liking the job? I still miss it. But I hear you’re doing well.”

  Blax maneuvered around Jackson and took the chair at the head of the board table. Before sitting, he said, in a quiet, formal tone, “Yes, I am doing extremely well. I thank you for giving me this post, Jackson, and hope you are doing well in your retirement.”

  “Oh, I am, Maxim. Most of the time. You want to introduce me around?”

  Blax didn’t respond.

  “Never mind. I see a lot of familiar faces.” Going around the table Jackson shook hands with his old friends Brownley. “Payne, Bill, Fred…” As he greeted each, that person took a seat at the table beginning with Payne who settled next to Phillips’ chair. “Of course, I know who you are Carmen. Happy to meet you in person.” Flores smiled and shook Jackson’s hand before choosing a seat at the far edge of the group. “And this young woman…”

  The attractive black woman with the curly hair held out her hand and Jackson took it for a moment. He smiled and realized, up close the woman was older than he had thought - maybe closing in on 30. Ah, to be 30 again, he mused. “And your name is…?”

  “Mariah Belo,” the woman said in a low, throaty voice. “Mariah, like the wind.” She grinned impishly, daring Jackson to make the connection.

  Jackson quickly took the challenge, “They Call the Wind Mariah, Lerner and Loewe, Paint Your Wagon.”

  “Right, Mr. Phillips. Very good. My mom loved that musical even more than Porgy and Bess. A whole other era.”

  “1951,” said Jackson, the year Paint Your Wagon debuted on Broadway. “Your mom isn’t that old even if I am.”

  “Wow, you know your music. And you don’t look old to me.” Again, that smile. Jackson was charmed. Payne coughed softly.

  “Yes, well, if you take your seat, Mariah, we’ll move right along.” Jackson said abruptly and took his own advice.

  “I’m head of public affairs,” Mariah said as she claimed a seat on the other side of the table across from Jackson. As she glanced at the CEO at the head of the table, Mariah ditched the smile and took on a serious look. Jackson took note.

  “All of you have the highest security clearances but I have to remind you,” said Payne, taking charge of the meeting, “that everything said here must be kept absolutely confidential. That includes from wives, husbands, boy and girl friends, and never to be mentioned around your kids because they will repeat it like little parrots.” The group chuckled in unison, except one.

  Blax scowled and said, primly, “It’s not a laughing matter. Rumours like this can destroy the company.”

  “It’s not a rumour, Maxim,” Payne said with ire.

  “You’ll see,” retorted the CEO.

  “Okay.” Payne took a deep breath. “To recap, someone in this company has taken - stolen - source code for our Defence and Targeting solutions.

  “As you know these solutions detect and identify all characteristics of terrorist bombers as they approach at distance allied soldiers or even civilians. They allow soldiers to target and kill these terrorists well before they get near enough to detonate and destroy their targets.

  “They include platforms and applications that will identify cars and trucks that are carrying explosives or enemy combatants by analyzing things like vehicle weights, ways they are being driven and, using facial recognition, the people
inside these autos.

  “Solutions can be used with drones to locate areas where dirt or other materials have been used to cover IEDs and to take out IEDs and those who lay them, using lasers and other weapons.

  “The software also can be used to detect any emissions from explosives like fumes or even smells that would test a dog’s nose. It’ll cut through any camouflage.”

  Payne was underlining the value of the code so no one could argue the theft was not the number one priority of the company. “This,” he ended, “is a fabulous set of software, digital defences that have no equal.”

  “Enough of the promotion, Payne,” Mariah said and Jackson respected the way the young woman interacted with a senior executive nearing twice her age. She smiled to soften her interjection. “We all know what JPI does. Can you get to the point?”

  “Right. Thanks, Mariah.” Payne took no visible offence. “There is no question the source code was downloaded - copied directly from a server on which it was archived. We have no idea of the how or who, yet.”

  Even though everyone in the room had been briefed there were gasps from several.

  Payne gestured toward Brownley.

  “We have another problem,” Payne went on. Yesterday, Bill Brownley and I were driving down from Jackson’s cottage when Bill’s Jeep was almost run off the road. We think it was deliberate.”

  “Good god,” said Fred Nbodo. “That’s terrible. But…” he wrinkled his brow, “Are you saying there is a connection?”

  “No idea,” said Bill Brownley in a gruff voice. Eyes swivelled to the big man who had been sitting quietly at the table. “We think they tried to hurt us. Payne and me. But it could have been a simple case of road rage.”

  “That’s awful,” said Carmen Flores calmly. “But, unless we know the two things are connected, can we deal with the theft of the source code?”

  Carmen was a woman in her mid-30s who looked 10 years younger. She held a PhD and a business degree from Columbia and was, according to what Payne told Jackson, a highly respected figure at JPI despite having held her job for less than a year. She had a grim look on her attractive face.